The First Wolves

27. TELL ME ALL

The smiths had been working all through the night to meet the standards of Tarquin’s orders. How they had achieved his demands in such a short timeframe was unfathomable? They had only stopped because they needed more of the specific metal Tarquin insisted they must use. Each soldier queued in a single file collecting their new weaponry: spears, arrowheads, swords, daggers, even the edges of their shields had been modified. The general had invested a huge amount of his own wealth in ensuring his men had what they needed, and when the senate tried to claim they didn’t have the resources to fund such an extravagant defence, he had simply replied that they should send their wives’ jewellery. His argument was further emphasised when he pointed out that it was a small price to pay to ensure that they could sleep safely in their beds at night.

A carriage pulled into the camp, a huge cage on the back trapped four elderly people within it, and judging by the indifference to their suffering, it was obvious that the prisoners were wolves. Tarquin stormed out of his tent, followed by Quintus, who kept a safe distance away. Lately, the general seemed increasingly dangerous, unpredictable and fixated on his revenge more ardently than ever before. Defeat had made him more fanatical in his mission. In his opinion, humility was for weaker men, and he would not simply accept a loss. The only lesson he had taken from the wolves’ escape was that next time an opportunity arose he would kill them up close. He would watch as hope and rebellion effused from their bleeding wounds. Annoyingly, he could see Quintus itching his scab from the silver he had tested on him the day before. It pleased him to know that the pain would last. It had always been known that silver hurt wolves, but it was the details Tarquin wanted to explore. Yesterday, he learnt from Quintus that holding it up to the skin would burn the wolves, but no other effect would occur. Eager to learn what would happen if the wolves ingested the metal, or were cut by it, or were too close to it. He looked at the wolves in the cages like experimental specimens. One question overtook his morality. How many ways could a wolf die from being in contact with silver? He gestured to his men to release them, determined to find the answers to his questions.

His soldiers roughly threw the prisoners to the ground in front of the smith’s forge. The carriage driver placed a chest at Tarquin’s feet, and handed him a small scroll from the senate. Sneering, he threw the scroll at Quintus without reading it, and kicked open the chest. Various ostentatious pieces of silver jewellery tumbled over the ground. Tarquin picked one item up, satisfied when he saw his body slave flinch. Striding over to the four old wolves, huddled together on the ground, he lifted the wrist of the eldest woman. Her skin was thin and creased. It didn’t deter him. He placed the silver on her forearm, and watched it sizzle. Turning his attention to the smith, he pointed to the expensive bijouterie.

“At least we now know they have sent the real silver. Use this to continue your work, but save the pieces of the best quality to make me a new gladius and decoration for my amour. Make it your best work, because I’ll be using it to run through this leader of dogs, and when we return home it will need to look impressive for the triumph I will demand to honour us.”

His men cheered at his promise of the celebration that would be waiting for them when they returned to the capital. Soldiers were imagining their parade, marching over the cobbles of their home streets, while their families looked on and cheered.

“Yes, general,” the smith responded, and the clanging of metal soon resumed.

Whimpers and muffled cries distracted Tarquin as he looked at the elderly wolves. He had demanded that the eldest wolves in the capital be sent to him, so he could study his enemy, and they had found exactly what he had asked for. They were right to be scared, if they chose not to be forthcoming with the knowledge they had. Standing before his prisoners, his ominous shadow stretched over them, creating a potent feeling of foreboding. He revelled in diminishing his prisoners further by promising them pain with his supercilious bearing, should they choose not to comply with his expectations.

“You were all born in packs, is that right?” Tarquin questioned them.

Silence.

Deciding to destroy any notion of being impassive, Tarquin picked up one of the silver arrowheads, and held the flat side against the cheek of the nearest wolf. It was hard for him to pull it away, it melded to his skin, and he could have listened to his screams all day.

“So that is one misconception we have corrected. Silver is poisonous to you, but only if it comes in contact with your skin. You see there are many routes I can use to have my questions answered. The easiest for you would be to open your mouths.” Tarquin hissed at them.

“We will not help you, we hope the free pack destroys you. After all, they have already made a fool of you,” The wolf, with the now burnt face, mocked him.

There was a deep intake of breath from his fellow captives.

Tarquin took his gladius, and swung it at the defiant wolf, watching as his head spun off his shoulders, the spray of blood splattered on the prisoners, and made his own hands sticky.

“Another misconception, you can kill with iron if you take the head.” He crouched down to the last three wolves. “You will tell me all.” They nodded earnestly, terror inscribed on their expressions.

The interrogation was brutal. There were professionals in the army used to extract information, but Tarquin refused their expertise. There was peace for him in the macabre methodology that he had never appreciated before. The more they resisted him, the more he resorted to savagery to pull the answers from their reluctant lips. His questions were relentless. He asked about pack hierarchy, weaknesses, the moon Goddess, healing rates and their natural temperatures. Some knowledge he gathered from their behaviour. Even though they didn’t know each other, they were pained to watch each other suffer their punishments. There was inbuilt loyalty between them. Tarquin wondered when humans had lost their ability to feel compassion for strangers. Hours passed, the day gave way to the night, but still Tarquin felt as if they were keeping something from him. This incensed him.

“Why do you think Conri decided to kill his masters, and all the citizens in the house after being a loyal slave for so long?” Tarquin watched the guilt flicker pass their eyes, and he knew he had found their final secret.

It had been an interesting last hour. Tarquin had ensured that one of the wolves had stayed alive in case he had any further questions, or theories to cross-reference later on. Between the three of them they had guarded their final secret like an expensive, holy jewel. He had learnt a lot from the death of the two wolves that had withered by his hands. Firstly, if silver entered their blood stream, death was assured, and secondly, being close to silver would weaken them. When he finally plucked the answer they were so reticent to give him from their reluctant tongues, Tarquin’s eyes had glittered from the glow of such a rich yield.

“Tie the remaining wolf to the post, and put one of the bangles we found at the House of Heaton on her.” He instructed his tribune, ignoring his respectful salute.

Finally, back at his desk, he wrote down all the intelligence he had gathered. When the senate had decided to destroy the temples of Selene and loot the wealth, the priestesses had no interest in salvaging the limited riches they had. Instead, they were found burning ancient scrolls and smashing the stone tablets into unreadable dust. He finally understood why. He now had everything he needed to make the wolves suffer. A memory spewed from the back of his mind like sour reflux. Vivid images of the priestess that had stood on the steps of her temple praying to the moon. Tarquin recalled she had been accused of smuggling slaves to freedom. He had had to circulate many rumours about that day, even pulling out witnesses from the market place to see the destruction. It was all lies. The priestess, Neoma, he recalled what her name was, had destroyed her own temple, and had waited for them to arrive. She gave them a stare that scorched their skin with judgement.

“The moon Goddess sees all. You will feel her wrath for your crimes against her.” She said calmly, as if stating a fact, before collapsing to the floor, and surrendering herself to death.

Despite his young age, Tarquin saw the likelihood that she had poisoned herself before their arrival, but the way she had staged it made it seem that the moon Goddess had called the priestess into her embrace. His men had been unnerved. Tarquin had laughed and clapped complimenting the woman’s timing, thereby trivialising her sacrifice, before calming his men. That night he had been invited to the House of Heaton, but he had declined. He couldn’t bear to see his Antonia with that worthless Ludus owner. It was the last invite he ever received, and now he wondered if he had truly been cursed that day by the priestess on the steps.

Mates.

That was the final secret that the wolves had told him about. He could understand being devoted to one perfect person for the duration of his life. That was what he should have had with Antonia, but if he couldn’t be with his ‘soul mate’, neither could anyone else. He looked over at the stand where his darling’s death mask was presented. She didn’t like being put in the box, so he had her placed at the base of his bed, so that she was always looking over him. He didn’t care what others thought of his actions, only her opinions mattered to him.

Quintus shuffled into the tent, the scroll from the senate tightly clasped in his hands. He had read it carefully, condensing down the important bits that Tarquin would want to know. Nervously, he waited by the desk for his master to ask him to speak. He paid careful attention to all the rules more recently, since every mistake was being punished more viciously than the last.

“What did those old goats say, Quintus?”

“They are insisting that the silver be returned at a time you are able to do so, and that you accredit the ladies of the capital with the idea of donating their silver to help the men. They ask for an expected time for the rebellion to be squashed, and that a detailed itemised list of expenses be sent to them. As an aside, they have expressed their concerns about your leadership and warn that further help will be refused if results aren’t seen soon.”

Tarquin didn’t reply, he continued to stare at Antonia’s mask, caressing her cheek with his thumb as if she were real. Quintus left the tent, thankful to have made it out without punishment. The bloody clothes of the general were bundled into the body slave’s arms, and he tried to swallow down the vomit that threatened to rise up his throat. It seemed as if his timing to leave had been perfect as he heard the angry bellow from inside the tent.

“TRIBUNE!” Tarquin shouted.

“Yes, general,” his loyal soldier saluted.

“Go to the woods and find a plant called wolfsbane, ensure every centurion has a pouch of it on them at all times. Include it as part of their inspection, and if they do not have it on them they must be flogged. I will write to the senate demanding more wool. We must stay warm for winter, the wolves are planning on this being our weakness, and we must not do what they expect. Scouts tell me they are heading north via the swamps, so we will move the camp tonight, and meet them when they emerge at the Northern point. Tell every soldier that the priority is killing the she-wolves, specifically the one they call Fidella. The centurion who brings me her head will be given a thousand sestertii. Prepare the hunt tribune.”

Tarquin knew exactly how he would win now, and it wasn’t by targeting the alpha, but the women that were treasured by their mates.